Reading

Pages flicker between fingers. Slowly turned, one after the other, the hands rubbing against paper in the silence of rooms subduing readers. Without bother and unflinching, a captivating story engulfs without the need for thinking past the pages at hand. Black ink against white backdrops, the novels rages through veins until the edges of the book are creased and the story is consumed a word at a time for a perfect picture in the form of a story.

The classics, the greats, the newest and the latest make the endless world of books a journey without a finish. The countless libraries, the small bookshops, the large retailers all contribute a slice to the giant paper pie of voices and experiences. From fiction to biography and poetry, heroes are born, and tales are captured in the grips of the next page and the next scene unraveling faster into the oncoming chapter.

The need to swallow each word without missing a letter is greater in the favorites. The intricacies of the works growing greater with each passing sentence, the small puzzles solved as part of larger collections patched and framed within the hard covers passed between readers.

Moonlight falls upon on my bookshelf. The books swallow the surrounding darkness and the glimmering spines shine titles and authors from years gone by, waiting to be picked up and given a chance.

Trips

The reflections from my space are of seat back tray tables, empty soda cans and pages of crumpled novels. An infinite number of trips do not satisfy my restless nature. From home to school, the pages of my ruled notebook are compiled of endless sentences of poetry and prose. I stumble over the minutes, adjusting myself in my seat for a position of peace and rest. Finally, in comfort, I open into the pages and truly begin my journey, as I have countless times in the past, into my surroundings, whether immediate, distant, past or present.

I am creative by nature. The rules and confines of science, interesting and necessary as they are, can be tedious. I survive in small doses of scientific thought and in larger gulps consisting of the intricacies of life and the ways of others. There is no limit to creative endeavor. The black hole of creativity finds ways to suck in inquisitive minds without hopes of being remitted back with any form of normalcy.

An endless amount of times, I have found my thoughts spiraling out into bigger ideas, grown and branched into a million little pieces of everyday life with a million backdrops. Never finding myself void, the relentless machine between my ears churns without stopping. It is a world of its own, rarely at standstill, always with opinion or idea.

Before I know it, I am elsewhere. The open fields of the countryside blend into a large view of winter landscapes and grassland. The empty meadows immerse the mind, clearing them of the unnecessary. As the train churns forward, so do the thoughts accompanying these voyages of hundreds of kilometers. I have made note of the ideas, I have made sense on the restlessness and I have moved into a different scene before long.

Hillsides

The rain come down as it does
The light nowhere, not here, maybe saved to be borrowed for tomorrow
Ominous grey covers, shrouded in cold clouds loving the loud bangs of thunderous rumbles
A man soaked in his black winter attire, wired to his mind the unkind flavors of seasonal surrender

Drenched with every step, wet in his walk up the hills of beauty
A person without duty, bound only to the body truly
Unruly marches for pinnacles to be reached
For mountains to be conquered
For each step to be pondered

But rain so heavy, so formed, so ready
to topple him over
in a walk so unsteady

He continues, as with dusk and dawns
Thrusting himself onto great mountain tops
Unable to stop for a view amidst the lush hillsides and mountainside lawns

Corners

They march in silence
In scenes of commotion watching
Wondering where they fit
Sitting in darkened corners
Silence plastered on the corners of their lips

Alone again amidst the crowds
Without the making of sentences among the loud
Shrouded in isolation
Dignity filters away to the ways of the disavowed

Spare a thought, afford a word
Broke in company
A joke unheard

Left to their vices
Countless of the lifeless breathe away
Tired and sick
Wishing yet to live on another day

The Windows of Yesterday

Do you remember cold days of December?
The passing seasons of daydreams without reason
Looking out through the windows of youth
Wishing elsewhere not daring to deal with truth

A change will come, has come, and the people have gone
Where might they be? They may come back before long
Wait and wait until they no longer return
Moving on with today for tomorrow cannot be earned

Gazing out into the phasing out of life as it is known
Radical changes and rearrangements in the name of growth
The world is not how it began, how it was, how it will be tomorrow
With less time for sorrow peering out the windows of yesterdays borrowed

Culture

Tense as petrified wood
Bare bodies shudder in shivering states misunderstood
Dense in thought as autumn leaves returning down to their roots
A native man never spared the diversity of his unholy truths

Confined in booths of skin where people no longer mirror
Tempests of terror and the fear of other tiptoeing to not commit racial error
A habitat in eras where purity of skin is akin to success and material good
Never have we left a state degraded by where the imperial once stood

They have moved on and left us where we belong
So long, scorn, and see you tomorrow for you are not yet a bygone
By the names of our winding rivers and fermented livers refusing to move on
A new dawn tattered and torn, a pawn of hope like the Pope kissing new born before sending him down life’s sliding slope

Art

Putting me at ease, the magic in art refuses to seize. I await the next exhibition and eagerly expect the best from the next gallery. Influences range for individuals and subjective to taste, the art I enjoy is a full plate of delicacies carefully prepared and served for keen eyes that wish peace from the absurdity of the world.

Monet, Picasso, and Cezanne, the list of classics is endless. Like a friendless boy finding joy in his books and toys, I loiter through galleries fixated. Elated by the fresh, the smell of oils and paint do little to quiet the hunger in my heart for works new and quaint. The skins of paintings carry the embodiment of artists, similar to traces of mist covering landscapes in morning light.

A painting must not be touched; an artist’s life is usually not worth much. The beauty in the eye of the beholder, growing warmer with each cold blow shouldered. Closing my eyes, the works are still there, bare and naked harboring experiences that cannot be replicated. My feet await the plod through the next corridor, into the world of art through the artist’s front door.